


The View From Cloud Nine

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 17:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11018445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: “It’s the same as a dance belt,” comes off wobbly around the edges, not quite hot enough yet despite the burn pulsing in the tips of his ears.Otabek wears hipster briefs with his costumes, because to the great loss of the world at large, Otabek’s costumes are cut roomier in the leg than Yuri’s. Still, he did ballet for the two years before he crapped out, and Yuri is so far from the only guy in the seniors division sporting a tiny strip of fabric under his outfits, so it’s not like Beka shouldn’t fucking recognize a perfectly normal, functional athletic garment when he sees one.“It’s satin," Otabek points out. "And sparkly.”





	The View From Cloud Nine

**Author's Note:**

> I have officially spent way too much time working on this. It started out as a simple PWP about Yuri wearing panties and then it developed all of these other things and IDEK I don't think I'm in love with it, but I've also killed far too many braincells on it to let myself work on anything else until it was done. 
> 
> For reference, should anyone care, the shoes mentioned at the beginning are [these](http://us.christianlouboutin.com/us_en/shop/men/louis-spikes-orlato-men-s-flat.html) because Yuri would absolutely own that shit, and yes, I did base the panties on a pair that I actually own: they look similar to ,[this](http://thumbs.ebaystatic.com/images/g/Gq4AAOSweWVXfI6B/s-l225.jpg) (but with a different band.)
> 
> Additional warnings for gender issues - I didn't feel like this was a major enough part of the story to satisfy people who might be searching that tag, but I do think it's worth mentioning for those who may be sensitive to it. Yuri in this fic has kind of complicated relationship with his own masculinity stemming from some personal insecurities, all of which is touched on but is not a major focus of the fic. (Why is this porn so thinky??)

There’s going to come a point, Yuri assumes, that coming home to find somebody else there isn’t going to be trippy. 

Good trippy, he means. Like, he’s never actually gotten high because, hello, he hasn’t spent most of his fucking  _ life _ clawing his way to the top of the men’s figure skating bracket just to get suspended over some fucking pot like a half-wit - the literal definition of “not worth it” - but what’s even the point of getting stoned unless it’s something like the swooping, thrill-ride, faintly psychotic joy that balloons up inside his chest every time he walks through the door and sees fancy-ass noise-cancelling headphones on every available surface and the haphazard towers of Beka’s library worth of paperbacks entrenched next to the cat condo. 

The view from cloud nine is nothing to sneeze at.  

The toes of his shoes thunk against the baseboard, adding to the camouflage pattern of black rubber splotches in front of the tangled pile of sneakers by the front door where Otabek’s motorcycle boots are flopped, dogeared over Yuri’s spiked metallic Louboutins . He’s pretty sure Otabek would take that as some kind of metaphor, or symbolism, or whatever. 

Juggling the grocery sack onto his hip, Yuri drags his phone out of his back pocket and snaps a shot of the shoe bramble to post later - anything him-and-Beka related is a spontaneous like-generating machine nowadays. It’s creeptastic, but also kind of cool. 

Fighting his way through the mob of paps that have taken up residence out front? Significantly less cool. Yuri’s, like, one more pointed question about which one of them is the girl in the relationship from lighting somebody on fire. The news vans gave up two days after Beka’s boxes started showing up, but the plain old media whore photogs have been there, on and off, for a fucking week - Yuri gives it another two before people get sick of waiting for, like, Otabek to bend him over and dick him on the front stoop or something. Hasetsu was only gossip-column central for a month or so after Viktor and Yuuri’s wedding, and this isn’t anywhere near that dramatic. 

Since his stomach seems to have missed that fucking memo while it was doing back handsprings, he goes ahead and repeats it to himself. Then once more for good measure. 

_ It’s not that fucking dramatic.  _

Otabek’s stayed over before plenty of times, a few days here or a week there, between competitions or over the summer. Yuri’s visited him too in Almaty. It’s never been a Thing before. But it’s never been for this long before. Especially since they started doing  _ this _ . Since people figured out they were doing it. Now there are fucking camera-monsters out front throwing around words like “engagement” and Yuri’s somewhere in the purgatory between bliss and a well-deserved, full-on-Katsuki panic attack. 

Mostly he’s worried about Beka. 

Yuri started getting press attention young, but Otabek had a lot more “real person” years. He doesn’t seem to care if Yuri posts stuff about them on social, but he gets this sort of stillness when the ravenous hoards start shouting questions; sort of hunted-like, like maybe he’s reconsidering whether he’d be better off back in Almaty until the season starts. 

Seriously, lighting people on fire, it’s a possibility. 

Almond milk safely tucked in the fridge, because Otabek has officially spent too much of his life in North America and it’s damaged his brain, not to mention his tastebuds, Yuri shuffles back toward the sounds of something classical lilting its way out of his unsuspecting bedroom. 

_ Their _ bedroom. 

God, if anybody ever finds out he’s this fucking cheesy he’s going to have to throw himself off a bridge or something. 

Otabek is camped out on the bedroom floor, legs folded up, bare toes sweeping back and forth across the pile of the carpet the same way they do across the sheets at night; this teeny shuff sound that Yuri’s started to find way too soothing lately. A tiny city of folded laundry has developed off of the point of one of Beka’s knees, while Snegurochka has colonized the to-be-folded pile on his other side. 

As Yuri walks in, she slits open one steel blue eye, adjusting onto her back with a grunt and a dismissive flick of her tail. Otabek reaches over to stick his hand into the world’s fluffiest bear-trap and scratch her belly before extracting a sock from underneath her purring head. 

“Did you find a blue one of those for the right foot?” he asks, bending over to drop a quick, addictively casual kiss on Beka’s upturned mouth. “I’ve got two lefts paired up and the arch support stuff feels all weird.”

The air is cool on the soles of his feet as Yuri toes out of the pair he’s already wearing. Left to his own devices he tends to leave them in balled up little wads on the floor until Sneg makes off with them and he eventually has to track them down under the sofa, but Otabek kind of sucks at this young bachelor gig and chucking them into the hamper in the corner is a lot easier than coping with the whole not-mad-just-disappointed vibe Beka can put off like gamma radiation. 

“Not yet,” he says, something one degree off-center in his tone, the kind of fractional difference that can change a landing to a fall. “I found this, though.”

The glance Yuri tosses over his shoulder gets slogged down halfway across the room, fucking bullet-time as he homes in on the crumple of black in Otabek’s hand. The burnished gleam of the light from the bedside lamp hits it, pairing up with twinkle of rhinestones to make it look like Otabek’s got a handful of liquid midnight.  

Heat rockets up Yuri’s spine, bleeds out into his guts and spills blistering across his cheeks. The taste of it clings, bile-thick to the back of his throat. 

No. No no  _ no no no no _ .

This is a dream. This is a crazy dream that he’s going to wake up from and never tell anyone about ever. 

“And?” sounds at least 65% like a real word. He’s very proud of himself. 

Otabek sticks a finger in either side of the underwear’s waistband, holding them up; the slim, high cut of the band strung between his hands flowing into a triangle patch of fabric dangling at the center. There’s really no getting around the stark absence of ass-coverage. 

“It looks breezy,” Beka says, like they don’t carry inflection where he comes from. Yuri never manages to pull off that kind of cool. He can burn with fire and he can burn with ice, but anything in the temperate regions in between and he just fucking melts. There’s a reason he tries not to spend too much time at those latitudes. 

“It’s the same as a dance belt,” comes off wobbly around the edges, not quite hot enough yet despite the burn pulsing in the tips of his ears.

Otabek wears hipster briefs with his costumes, because to the great loss of the world at large, Otabek’s costumes are cut roomier in the leg than Yuri’s. Still, he did ballet for the two years before he crapped out, and Yuri is  _ so far _ from the only guy in the seniors division sporting a tiny strip of fabric under his outfits, so it’s not like Beka shouldn’t fucking recognize a perfectly normal, functional athletic garment when he sees one. 

“It’s satin. And sparkly.”

Alright, point. 

Not  _ the _ point, but, you know,  _ a _ point. 

“It’s  _ comfortable _ ,” Yuris hisses back.

This is what he gets for not wanting underwear lines to show through his best-man suit. 

This is what he gets for letting Victor and Chris take him shopping. With champagne. Champagne is evil, and clearly the enemy. Also Victor and Chris. 

This is what he gets for not burning the fucking things after the Hasetsu Wedding Debacle Spectacular. 

Fuck. 

Yuri can feel his stance going defensive as he crosses his arms over his chest, which is just about the biggest give away he can think of and he can do about as much to stop it as oncoming traffic. “And it wasn’t in the fucking wash.”

_ Ha! _ Yes, match point, or checkmate, or whatever the fuck. 

Otabek has the good taste to look embarrassed, in that saturnine kind of way that you only really notice if you’ve memorized all of the ways in which his face doesn’t move. 

“I was putting your things away.”

Yuri eyes the stacks of folded, conspicuously not-in-a-drawer laundry on the floor. 

“Specifically my underwear?”

The expression that curls up at the corners of Otabek’s eyes is almost sheepish, if, you know, that was an emotion Beka had. Yuri’s spent the last couple of years studying him, and he’s pretty sure it’s not. 

Beka closes his fist around the bundle of black, rubbing it between his fingertips. Powers through whatever emotions he may or may not be having to say, “I like them. I think they’re pretty.”

Plucked nerve twinge. Record scratch. This split-screen moment where everything goes jagged. 

Yuri knows it way too well. It’s the flip side of the quiet when things are going well out on the ice and he belongs to the music, and the rush, and the burn of his muscles. 

It’s Hot Springs on Ice. It’s the Cup of France 2017. It’s every gold medal he ever lost to motherfucking JJ Le-dickwad. 

It’s a scorching, red tide that sweeps in and sucks him under until he can’t tell whether he’s swimming down or up. And the answer has never once been  _ up _ .

“Don’t get any ideas, pervert.” The elastic of snaps back loud against his fingers as he yanks the sliver of fabric out of Otabek’s grip. The console lights on Yuri’s mental control board are flashing all kinds of warning signs at him, but he’s already in this nosedive. “If you want a woman to prance around in panties for you, go fuck one of your fans.”

Shit. Dick move. Dick move on like half a dozen fronts.

It’s not on Beka that before they started doing… this, that Otabek’s dating history exclusively starred people of the female persuasion. More to the point, unlike some so-called straight skaters Yuri could name, that Beka actually  _ likes _ girls. Likes  _ fucking _ girls.

Past tense. 

Liked. 

Now he likes fucking Yuri, and since he also likes his balls attached directly to his body, nobody but Yuri is going near them. 

Anyway, whatever. It’s not on Otabek for being bi. It’s not even like Yuri would give a shit except for, you know. His whole life has been people talking about how dainty he is, how graceful, how fucking  _ pretty _ . All  _ what a delicate little angel _ and  _ what a shame, he’d have made such a lovely girl _ . Puberty should have changed the script on that, but, well… Figure skater. Ballerina.  _ The Russian Fairy _ . Long hair, and likes dick, and that one tabloid last year that ran a shot of them from Paris before Yuri’s last growth spurt kicked in - Yuri’s back had been turned, Otabek’s arm around his waist, head tipped to whisper in Yuri’s ear. 

The headline read, “Who Is Altin’s Mystery Girl?” 

Mila had about killed herself laughing. Yuri’d kicked a bench across the room.

And, like, there’s nothing wrong with girls, okay? He’s not one of those douchenozzles. Admittedly all of the women in his life are pants-shittingly terrifying, but a woman is a great thing to be if, you know, it’s what you are. 

Yuri isn’t. At all. Fairy haired, ballet dancing, dick-liking and all, and it’s not a fucking  _ shame _ .

So, fine, Yuri has issues. Rage issues, gender issues, self-esteem issues, take your pick. He’s all mature and shit for admitting them, right? In his head, anyway. Verbal is still on standby. 

Of course his Sexually Exclusive Person Who Doesn’t Have A Label Yet has freaky sci-fi mind-sync abilities or some shit - it’s a working theory - so despite the complete dearth of verbal, Otabek drops the underwear onto the floor like nothing has ever been less interesting to him, still-pond eyes all of Yuri when he says, “Yuri.  _ Zhanym _ . I don’t want you to be a woman. I just like your butt.”

As bad as the ravages of fury can get, they’re nothing compared to the low-tide. Once the flare has passed and he’s just charred and scraped clean. Thirty fucking seconds and he feels more drained than a routine has left him in years. 

The top of the chest of drawers digs in just under his shoulderblades as he leans back against it, drawerpull stabbing into his back like it has a personal vendetta against his kidney. 

His voice feels more like his own when he says, “If you’re going to come on to me over a thong, at least call it my ass.”

Otabek honest to God smiles like his birthday’s come early; which is to say, his mouth curves softly and his eyes go all tender. Yuri’s heart does its best impression of a chocolate bar in an oven.

“I like your ass,” Beka allows. 

For all of four seconds Yuri seriously considers holding out, but, you know, the smiling, and the deep brown eyes, and the Otabek sitting in  _ their _ bedroom folding  _ their _ laundry because he L-O-V-E-S Yuri, and yeah, he’s weak. He’s so fucking weak for Otabek. 

He’s also - and he’ll fucking obliterate anybody who says so, but he’s himself and he can fucking well think what he wants - He’s also, if he’s being totally honest here, kind of an overreacting dipshit. 

They don’t do a lot of kinky shit. Mostly Yuri has always assumed that’s because Beka has done enough with other people to figure out what he is and, more specifically,  _ isn’t  _ into. But maybe it’s just that Otabek figured that Yuri couldn’t handle it; it’s not exactly a secret that Yuri was Captain No Action before they started messing around. Maybe Otabek’s secretly been wanting something a little more adventurous and held back because he thought Yuri would take it badly. Maybe he saw a fucking thong in Yuri’s drawer and took that as an in. 

Yeah, so, overreacting dipshit to the nth power. And also boring in bed. Awesome.

“Fucking right, you do,” he mutters, sauntering over to run his fingers through the long top of Otabek’s hair. 

His crotch is right fucking there, eye level and everything, so naturally Otabek decides to rub the tip of his nose up and down the inseam of Yuri’s jeans instead, just high enough on the inside of his thigh to drive him certifiable. Yuri’s cock goes thick anyway, lack of contact be damned. He’s 18, “easy” is part of the job description. 

The silky slide of his fingers flexes into a grip, just a little too hard. Hard enough to make Beka grunt, a mean little curl of satisfaction bottoming out in his belly as he uses the hold to guide Otabek’s mouth where he wants it. And Otabek goes, pliant like he hardly ever is in the other parts of his life. Like he only is for Yuri. 

His breath is hot through denim, a steamy tease of what it would be like to be in his mouth right this second. The crushed velvet slide of his tongue and the slick glide of his lips, that wet, filthy noise that rasps free from the back of his throat when Yuri pushes a little too deep a little too fast and Beka refuses to let him back off. 

Fuck, but Yuri loves his mouth. 

Is that vanilla? Oral’s kind of kinky, right? 

“I got your weird almond juice,” he says, a little breathless as he watches his fly mash Otabek’s lips out of shape, feels the scrape of blunt teeth on heavy cotton. 

Otabek just hums, hands sliding firmly up the back of Yuri’s thighs to knead at his ass. 

Seeing as he’s about a minute from him knees going out from under him, Yuri considers sinking to the ground, legs spread wide over Beka’s thighs, to be the better part of valor. Or however the fuck that goes. 

Otabek’s lips are hot when he kisses them. Not yet thick from kissing, or sucking, or fucking, but that’s easy enough to fix. Yuri nips at the edge of one, drags his tongue along it until Beka catches his drift and latches on for one of those slow, dirty sucks that erase Yuri’s ability to function like a normal human. 

He’s reasonably sure he manages to mumble something along the lines of, “You can have some after,” before he presses Beka down into the carpet, but he wouldn’t bet money on it. If his foot just happens to shove the thong under the bed in the process, that’s purely a coincidence. 

***

A couple of years back, Beka had kind of, sort of dated this girl named Anara. Yuri had “met” her several times, because nothing short of incapacitation or active sexual intercourse can stop Otabek from answering a video call. Friendly and quiet, with a wide, soft mouth and big, almond eyes framed by a hijab. She’d been on the same music history track as Otabek in tutoring. His mom still talks about her, while looking at Yuri like needs to be dipped for fleas. 

Yuri spent the entire eight months Otabek and Anara were Whatevering pissed off and confused and aching like there was a black hole nestled between his lungs, slowly drawing the rest of him into oblivion. There was a lot of furious masturbation and crying. Not his finest year. 

Considering he’s been pseudo-adopted by the happiest queer couple in this or any galaxy, it took him way too fucking long for him to get his shit together. 

That is not a problem anymore. Keeping it together, sure, but he’s working on it. 

Not getting freaked out and jealous over theoretical girls and whether Beka would theoretically be happier if Yuri was one would be, like, a step in the right direction. 

Tissue paper sticks to Yuri’s fingers as he flips it back, crinkle accusingly loud as it bounces off the bathroom walls. It gives birth to an aimless, hot, cringey feeling that takes up all the airspace in his chest and turns his palms damp. 

This is not a fucking apology. Apology makes it sound like he did something wrong. Which he didn’t. At all. A heaping helping of attitude served Beka right for rooting around in Yuri’s underwear drawer and making snide insinuations about Yuri’s  _ perfectly ordinary  _ undergarments with his stupid, insinuating face. 

Alright, maybe it’s a little bit of an apology. 

It’s also a guaran-fucking-tee that nobody is ever going to call Yuri Plisetsky a boring lay. 

A tiny brown paw curls under the edge of the bathroom door, claws hissing on tile. 

“Not right now, Daddy’s busy. Go eat,” Yuri commands, as if that has ever worked. 

On the other side of the door, Sneg wails mournfully. 

There’s not nearly enough fabric here, Yuri thinks, turning back to the counter and its tiny, incriminating payload, neatly folded in a crisp pink paper nest. Just a square of stretchy black lace, smooth under his fingertips, nearly weightless as he plucks it free. The pattern of the front flashes at him, neon green leopard print. 

Cooler looking than the other pair, he’ll give them that.  

Way less supportive, though, he adds, shucking his pants down and shimmying into the wistful parody of actual underwear before he has a chance to overthink it. The pair that Victor and Chris had bought him-- talked him into--  _ forced him to buy _ were specially made, roomier at the front to allow for his junk. Yuri has absolutely no fucking idea how to go about tracking more of them down, because like hell is he typing  _ that _ into his laptop, that’s the kind of shit hackers live for, and calling to ask Victor or Chris is… no. Hard no. He’d just assume not get a big ol’ sticker-covered box full of dude-panties from Japan every month for the rest of his life, with bonus smug-supportive notes.

He does get why there are specialty versions now, though. It takes a little bit of shuffling to get all of the important bits tucked inside this pair, and even then it leaves an awkward bulge at the front. 

But, like, kind of sexy-awkward.  _ My junk is too huge to be contained by this scrap of fabric _ awkward. 

Yeah, he’s starting to see some of the appeal of this. 

None of which makes meeting his own eyes in the mirror any less squirm-inducing. 

Okay, he definitely doesn’t look  _ pretty _ . Even when he reaches up to unsnarl his messy fishtail braid, letting his hair hang down over his shoulders in gnarled waves, he can make it as far as semi-androgynous, but anything beyond that? No way. 

It’s maybe messed up how much of a relief that is, but still, there’s a part of him that’s soothed by the confirmation that there’s no way Beka could have fantasized about this and thought he could pretend Yuri’s a girl. 

Of all the things Yuri had ever imagined he’d be, broad-shouldered had never figured in. Taller, he’d guessed - not this tall, but still - and a skinny little shit, for sure. Never had much fat on him, not between skating and dance, and the little bits of padding he’d had have long since been burned through by growing up, and up, and then up some more. It gives him a kind of lanky T-shape he’s honestly not wild about. Victor says he’ll grow into it, in that airy fuck off tone because Viktor went directly from idyllic angel child to being voted world’s most lickable athlete, do not pass fucking go. Yuri’s been going through his goosey phase for a fucking year, he’s ready to be a swan, goddamn it. 

The panties don’t really help with that. 

He can’t exactly say they hurt either. 

The band is a two-inch-wide strip of black lace, cut low enough it nestles right under that ridge of muscle at his hip that Beka likes to rub his dick up against, leave it all slick and glossy, then fuck the mess right in. So, you know, that’s a perk. Highlighting his advantages, as it were. 

The slow nails-on-the-chalkboard squeal of Snegurochka’s claws grates down the door jamb just outside. Swear to god, Yuri’s going to have to repaint everything from hip-down when he moves out to get his deposit back. 

He’s always kind of rocked the hairless look, but the panties are small enough that a tuft of mousey hair shows over the top of them. Nothing at all like that hot, dark trail that slinks down from Otabek’s navel and fans out around his cock. 

The degree to which Beka’s body hair does it for him is frankly disturbing even to Yuri. Like that scratchy-soft cinnamon dusting across his pecs and how it feels when Yuri rubs their chests together. Sort of ticklish, sort of burning when he grates his nipples against it and fucks into the lube-slick space between Otabek’s thighs. 

Those thick thighs, heavy where Yuri’s are lean and hard, so pretty wrapped around his hips, with the shape of Yuri’s mouth sucked purple down the inside of them. Leading up to that plush, perky ass that looks so damn good in Yuri’s hands, or clamped tight around his cock, or… or maybe with a dainty strip of black lace running right up the middle. 

Breaking news, lady-thongs do absolutely nothing to disguise a hard-on. 

The tip of his dick is peeking out over the waistband, stark pink against the black, more of it showing as he finishes filling out. It stretches the fabric out farther from his body, showing off more hair and the darker swell of his balls, somewhere on the cross street between ridiculous and obscene.

It’s… not un-hot. 

Also he’s having some very positive feelings about the texture of lace. Very, very positive once he palms the whole works and just kind of shifts things a little. Even better when he imagines what it would be like if Beka was the one wearing them; flaunting his ass, cock on display, bulging out of fucking neon animal print that’s so obviously not his style that anybody who caught a glimpse would know instantly he didn’t pick them out for himself. Would know instantly who  _ did _ . Better than writing Yuri’s fucking name on him. 

Shit, alright, yeah, panty appeal found. Panty appeal nailed to the fucking wall.

And if he plans on showing them off tonight, he needs to take them off, like, now. He so does not have time for a wash cycle.  

Getting out of the panties turns out to be a lot easier than getting in, which he guesses is another thing to recommend them, given the circumstances. Still, it’s sort of a relief to slip his own tigerstripe boxers on under his jeans, even if he does have to leave them unbuttoned for, you know, space considerations. 

Sneg reads him the riot act the second he opens the door wide enough to slip past her. Chalks up another attempt in her years-long campaign to assassinate him by weaving over and around his feet as he heads toward the kitchen, tissue paper crumpling in his fist. He tucks it into the trash under a takeout container, then immediately feels like such a tool he almost digs it back out again, because seriously, like Beka’s going to root around in the trash for evidence. Still, he tucks the glossy paper bag the panties came in under the couch, just in case, and does his best to swallow back the beehive of nerves making itself at home just under his collarbone. 

Yuri’s always been a headlong rush kind of guy. On the ice, it’s always worked for him, and off the ice… Well, up until a few years ago, off the ice was just the pause button between getting back on the ice again. He’s still working on how to, you know, do that. Have that life. Have  _ a _ life, outside of the rink and the ballet studio. He kind of fucking sucks at it, to be honest. 

That might explain the panties. Then again, Yuuri Katsuki’s had more of a normal human life than most of the other people Yuri knows - he got a college degree, for fuck’s sake - and he’s the biggest weirdo Yuri’s ever met, so maybe it’s the having a life thing that turns you into a freak. If Yuri had kept his head down and focused on his skating and never became friends with Beka he almost definitely wouldn’t have a thong he plans to wear for his lbr-probably-boyfriend’s kink approval burning a hole in his pocket right now.

He wouldn’t trade it for the fucking world. 

***

An hour is not a very long time, realistically. Yuri’s spent an hour testing out a single Pinterest updo tutorial before. An hour is nothing. 

Waiting an hour for Otabek to get home is brutal. New species have been born and died off in the time Yuri has been laying here waiting. He’s changed his mind about the whole ordeal no less than eight times and if Beka does not get his pretty ass home soon Yuri is going to lose his goddamn mind and throw the fucking panties out the window, to the everlasting confusion of the paparazzi. 

Yuri’s shit at waiting. 

So when Otabek’s keys jangle-rasp-clunk in the front door, Yuri’s already launched himself off the bed and halfway down the hall before the neon warning signs in his head tell him to get a fucking grip and maybe go find some chill while he’s at it. 

It’s not that he’s nervous, exactly. It’s more that if Beka laughs at him, one of them is going to have to die and Yuri’s not at all sure which one it will be. 

Down the hall, he hears Otabek’s bag hit the floor with all the understated elegance of a cinderblock, Sneg’s sharp meow followed hot on the heels by the soft, murmuring rumble of Beka’s voice. Yuri’s 90% sure Otabek is trying to teach his cat Kazakh, the asshole. 

When he comes around the corner, Otabek’s still bent over with his back to Yuri scritching at the little tufts of fur over her cheeks. Heavy leather jacket pulled tight over his shoulders, jeans artfully ripped at the knee, three plain silver studs glinting from the shell of his ear. Butch and badass and fucking baby-talking to Yuri’s overenthusiastic fluffball like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he belongs here. 

Yuri’s heart is going to come spitting right out the front of his chest any second now,  _ Alien _ -style. 

Alright, seriously, deep breath. Lean one elbow up against the wall, let the hips fall into that natural angle that only took him ten minutes in the mirror to perfect. Fuck yeah, he’s a sex god. He’s wearing nothing but women’s panties and it’s hot as shit and if Beka doesn’t think so he can… he can fucking deal with it. 

He’s gonna think it’s hot though. Definitely. 

Please. 

“Hey pervert,” slides free almost-smooth around the giant wad of pulmonary muscle stuck in Yuri’s throat. “I bought you a present.” 

In all of the years Yuri has dedicated himself to surprising the fuck out of people with his skills, he’s never actually seen a real live person do a double-take before. Beka’s hands freeze on Snegurochka, who proceeds to pointedly butt her head up against them. His mouth falls open, jaw working around a word that never actually comes out, then snapping closed again. 

Otabek does not, in fact, have large eyes. They’re nice eyes, for sure, sort of smoldery and intense, but they’re not wide, or huge, or any of the other adjectives that are traipsing across Yuri’s brainpan right now because just this second, staring back at Yuri, Beka’s eyes are fucking planetary.

Yuri’s going to stroke out and die. 

Instead he flips his - freshly straightened, flawless, perfect, thank you - hair over his shoulder and heads back toward the bedroom with a, “Lose the pants.”

Like a fucking winner. Eat that, Pork Cutlet Bowl. 

He’s already climbed up onto the bed, knees digging into the top sheet by the time he hears Beka’s footfalls in the hallway, followed by a muffled thump that sounds an awful lot like Otabek bumping into a wall. 

Hell yes, Yuri’s fucking great at this kinky shit. All praise to Yuri. 

It takes another ten seconds for Otabek to appear around the door, boots kicked off, one sock ready for the missing persons list. Serious, stoic, and absolutely fucking wrecked if you know how to look for it. 

Objectively speaking, Otabek is the coolest person Yuri’s ever met. (For about fourteen seconds immediately after they met it was Victor, but then Victor.) He’s a world-class skater who DJs in his free time and rides a motorcycle. He can play the piano (brilliantly) and the guitar (okay) and every time they go somewhere new Otabek inevitably introduces him to some friend or other who’s a crazy underground art sensation, or casually famous, or both. Basically, exactly the kind of person Yuri would want to be if he wasn’t, you know, himself. Still kind of wants to be, even though he is himself. It’s never not going to feel like Yuri got handed the world on a platter to see all of that crumble to bits just from how bad Beka wants him. 

Riding the crest of the power tripping xylophonic up his spine, Yuri smirks, “What did I say about pants?”

Grace has never exactly been Otabek’s forte; he’s powerful, and uncompromising, and precise, but he’s not built for finesse, or maybe more to the point, he’s never really bothered to give a shit. He only gets one leg out of his jeans properly before he just stomps at the other one and peels out of it inside out, leaving him bare-assed in one sock, his motorcycle jacket, and t-shirt like a fucking dumbass. 

Clearly Yuri is in deep, because somehow none of that is a turnoff.  

Fortunately, it only lasts for a second before the jacket hits the ground with a thump, shirt nothing but a whisper in its wake. 

Yuri’s had plenty of time to psych himself up for it, so he’s ready for the gut-punch, ready for the sting, almost craving it just to feel the steam-release of anticipation pour free. 

“So,” he licks his suddenly dry lips, and arches his back, full-on centerfold. “Am I  _ pretty _ ?”

His center of gravity jostles out of whack as Otabek’s weight settles onto the bed behind him, hot hand tracing the wing of his shoulder blade, lips one dirty thought away from that soft spot behind Yuri’s ear. 

“You are the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen,” Otabek says like a prayer, a belief so devoutly held that certainty transmutes it into something off-handed. One of these days Yuri’s brain is just going to evaporate,  _ poof _ , nothing to blame but Beka’s weird-ass compliments and the bright, fingerpaint streaks they leave on Yuri’s insides. 

The heat of his skin is a shock where he presses up against Yuri’s back, hands roaming over the shape of his hips. Two fingers slip beneath the lace band and just press there into the cut of his hip. He can feel his pulse jump like Morse code against Beka’s fingertips. 

“My soldier,” Otabek murmurs, half smothered in the curve of Yuri’s neck, and then he’s not saying anything at all because he’s got a mouthful of Yuri’s fucking tongue.  _ Jesus. _

His cheek is still chilly from the wind, lips a little chapped. Just the feel of him wrapped so close sears all the soft, exposed parts of Yuri, leaving him more bare than a stupid pair of panties ever could. 

He twists in Otabek’s arms to get more, closer, faster. Sends them both tumbling down the short trip to the mattress, skin and bones bumping too hard, uncoordinated. Then Beka is over him, on top of him, everywhere. Exactly where he belongs. 

Just to show off, Yuri pulls his right leg up into an extension - not as easy as it used to be, but still doable. More than worth the effort for the flash of Otabek’s teeth, the way he bucks into the cradle of Yuri’s hips, their cocks scraping perfectly through the fine barrier of lace. 

Hazy red, the heat in Yuri’s cheeks throbs as he makes himself spit, “You want to fuck me?”

It’s easier like this, so close that the space between them feels secret, dick already most of the way to hard just from the friction and the smell of weird wax Otabek puts in his hair. Almost not ball-shrivelingly embarrassing to try and talk like a pornstar. 

Slipping a hand around to hold his leg in close to his chest helps too. Nearly overstretching, no leverage to push back when Otabek grinds them together, but still fucking hot. Definitely better than anybody else Beka’s slept with could do. Flexibility: just one of the perks to banging the best fucking figure skater in the world. Not that Yuri’s made a list or anything. 

A sound that’s too much of a hiss to be ‘yes’ slithers through Otabek’s teeth, run to ground by, “I want everything. Always.”

Thick fingers tangle up in his hair, thumb nestled against the hollow of Yuri’s cheek like it was built to fit there. The other one has slipped between them to tug at the band of Yuri’s panties. Blunt, slick heat replaces the rasping shock of callouses over the thin skin of his inner thigh, and then Otabek’s cock is shoving up through the leg hole of the thong to nuzzle up against Yuri’s dick. 

It’s a tight fit. Lace pulls taut against Yuri’s hip, bites into his skin. Can’t be completely comfortable for Beka, but he fucks into it like he doesn’t know how to care, like it’s his god-given mission in life to fuck Yuri straight through this mattress, underwear or no. 

Otabek’s dick is suede-smooth against him, slithery-sweet counterpoint to the grate of lace, neither of them quite reaching the head. A world of sensation and none where he needs it most. 

He curls his leg over Otabek’s hip and tries to buck up into it; give as good as he’s getting, or maybe just get more, whatever. Either way, Beka’s pulling away before he can get a rhythm going, cold air spilling into the space he used to be like a dam broken. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” he growls at the sloping shape of Otabek’s flexing, muscle-draped back. It’s… a little distracting. Enough so that Yuri kind of misses whether Beka actually answers him before the half empty tube of lube from the bedside drawer hits him in the chest. 

“Eager,” he accuses, clumsily snatching at the bottle before it can roll away. 

“Always,” Otabek agrees again, neatly extracting the lube of Yuri’s hand and squeezing some out onto his fingers. 

Yuri settles back and hikes a leg up over Beka’s hip again, forcing himself to breathe through the electric fizz filling up his ribcage. Fingering’s good. He likes fingering. That sort of dark, past-midnight thrill of getting away with something, wringing pleasure out of something that’s supposed to feel wrong. After that is more of a challenge, the whole shebang. It always takes a minute or two once those first few thrusts are past before he can remind his body that it’s good, this fierce pleasure, being loved up so deep he’ll carry the feel of it the next day. He can’t come from it like Otabek, but it never takes long after, with Beka’s hand, or his mouth. 

It’s the anticipation that slays him. Yuri’s always been better at not thinking about things. 

Which, of course, he can’t fucking do when Otabek is just kissing him, slow and sweet and maddeningly thorough; decidedly not shoving his fucking fingers up Yuri’s fucking ass like he’s fucking supposed to. Yuri’s going to complain about it any second now, just as soon as Otabek stops licking at him like he’s made of candy and breathing those low, stuttered groans into Yuri’s mouth like-

Those sounds like... 

There are probably more delicate ways of investigating the situation than pawing at Beka’s ass until he can coordinate himself enough to get a feel for Otabek’s hand spreading himself open. 

“Oh,” Yuri blurts, like a fucking genius, and then again because once just didn’t cover it. “Oh. I thought…”

Who the fuck knows, actually, with the slippery bump of Otabek’s knuckles skimming against his skin and the smooth flex-clench of Otabek’s hole under the pads of his fingertips, Yuri can’t say with absolute certainty at this moment that he’s ever  _ had _ thoughts. He’s probably got IQ points dribbling out of his fucking ears, and considering the amount of precome leaking into his panties right now, the whole intellect thing is ranking a solid #2 on his Give A Fuck scale. Possibly #3. 

Otabek gives him a heavy-lidded, bedroom look, because apparently Yuri’s skull wasn’t empty enough for his tastes. 

“You like this better,” he shrugs, one-armed. Another thing Yuri totally would have noticed earlier if not for, you know, the IQ and the dribbling and all. He would be way better at understanding this conversation if Beka would stop fingering himself for a hot minute. 

“Yeah but.”

The kiss Otabek feathers across his lips is more like a breath, humid air and a hint of tongue that drags Yuri in like a magnet, open-mouthed and straining while Beka just matches him, nudging at Yuri’s lips and feeding, “I like that you like it,” right onto his tongue with a moan like molten sugar. 

There is a chance, a very small chance, that if God himself descended from heaven with a host of, like, fire-sword-wielding angels or some shit that Yuri might,  _ might _ be able to do something other than slide the tip of his finger in between Otabek’s and right on into the clutching heat of him, but Yuri wouldn’t fucking bet on it. 

Either way, there’s no deity that could keep him from kissing the living hell out of Beka when his face goes sex-doped and slack the second Yuri’s finger sinks in. 

“Fucker. I was trying to-” his breath catches on the static spark of lust that hits when Otabek grinds back onto his finger, head tipped back like he’s loving every second. “I was trying to do something kinky for you.”

There’s a delay before Beka manages to tug his eyes open, a butterfly flutter than melts along the way into something incredulous. 

“You think this isn’t kinky?”

As if he’s got something to prove, his fingers twist around Yuri’s, a slippery knot of skin that rips every particle of oxygen right out of Yuri’s lungs. His pointer finger has never felt more erotic. 

There are things about Beka he still doesn’t get. Might not ever, even if they spend the rest of their lives together, and wow, that’s a thought that lays him out like a fucking wrecking ball. The way he gets Yuri. Or, not even  _ gets _ , really. Not like  _ accepts _ , or anything like that. More like he knows what Yuri is underneath his skin. Like it’s this staggering idea to him that anyone might want Yuri to be some other way. There’s some mental geometry there than Yuri seriously fucking doubts he’s ever going to be able to do, but like hell is he going to point that out to Otabek. He knows a good thing when he’s got it. 

Rather than any of the inane, painfull true things that want to come tumbling out of Yuri’s mouth, he just spills, “I need a rubber right the fuck now,” all over the sheets. 

Like fucking magic, literally, Otabek slaps one against his chest, stuttering down onto his elbow to do it. The crinkly plastic is body warm, as if Beka’s had it tucked in his hand this whole time. 

So this is it. This is how Yuri loses his fucking mind. 

He’s got to pull his finger free to shove his panties down to the tops of his thighs and roll the damn thing on, and no, he was wrong, the stifled little grunt that Otabek loses as the stretch shrinks back down -  _ that’s _ going to be how he loses his fucking mind. 

Unless, of course, it’s from the way Beka resettles himself over Yuris hips and sits up, sits back, sits all the way fucking down on Yuri’s fucking cock,  _ Jesus fucking fuck _ . 

Tight. Hot. Slick. Not any different than any other time - except for that one time in Pyongyang that they don’t talk about because the entire Olympic village was packed to the gills with condoms and still somehow Beka wound up with jizz leaking out of his ass - and it’s still like a kick to the solar plexus. The fact that he’s required to take his dick out of Otabek to go about his daily life is a Greek fucking tragedy. 

“Oh fuck,” Yuri huffs, half delirious, “Oh fuck me.”

Otabek’s palms are ember hot on his chest, holding him still, or maybe holding his steady. Maybe rubbing his fucking ring over Yuri’s nipple like he really needed one more acid zip of sensation to make him shiver. 

It feels like he's melting on top of Yuri, every inch of where they touch molding until there’s not an iota of space to spare, skin sticky-slick, almost itching with the grate of fresh sweat. 

“You are a firestorm,” Beka says, voice gone to gravel and diamond dust. Doesn’t lean in so much as he gives the impression of it somehow, hand meandering over Yuri’s ribs, eyes to rival the molten core of the Earth. “You consume me.” 

He’s seriously going to kill Yuri with this shit, swear to fuck. 

Unlike some people, Yuri hasn’t got twelve thousand perfect song lyrics for every occasion, or snippets of poetry that  _ doesn’t fucking rhyme, _ or a single goddamn coherent thought, but he has this, his body, and he’s always been more eloquent with it anyway. 

The laden, double distilled silence cracks wide open as Yuri’s hips slap against the curve of Otabek’s ass. A taut, sweet drag that lights the ends of Yuris nerves like matches on a strike strip. They’ve long since worked out the details, so it’s easy to find the right angle, the right rhythm. Twist his hips just so and watch that muscle in Otabek’s arm spasm. Beka goes from sonnets to breathless and quivering faster than his bike can rev. 

The buttery light of the bedside lamp paints him in soft-edged shades of gold, impossible to make out the desperately pink little splotches that pop out all over the top of his chest when he really gets into it, the ones Yuri usually likes to lean in and press his mouth against, practically bending Otabek in half while Beka moans and thrashes, too far gone to care as long as he’s still getting fucked. He can’t reach them now, not with one square hand still planted on his sternum, keeping him in place as Otabek rides him, flexing and sinuous. Yuri has to throw a hand of his own in there just to break up the flow of it before he drowns in the undertow. His hand still looks so big on Otabek’s hip, powerful muscles shifting under the splay of his fingers and Beka moves with him, the firm high curve of his ass jiggling every time Yuri thrusts up to meet him. 

Otabek can’t keep still, a rambling assortment of sounds that might on some alternate version of Earth be Russian spilling out of him. He looks like heaven like this, or maybe a really scenic part of hell, or like, fuck, like Yuri even cares, okay? He looks like the hottest fucking thing that’s very bounced on Yuri’s cock, and yeah that’s a list that starts and ends with one name, but it’s still fucking true. Fucking epic, is what it is. Fucking Beka. 

Yuri’s pulse batters under his skin, lace grating hot at the outside of his thighs like a sausage casing. Like a cuff, trapping him there for Otabek to use. Just a hot dick for Beka to grind himself off on, spine curving into a roller coaster slope, head thrown back like there’s nothing better in the world than the drag of Yuri’s cockhead against his insides. 

And, like, Yuri’s had a lot of sex recently, okay. Go back two years and he would have said this much sex would probably kill a person. He keeps expecting to get used to it, and instead it’s like it gets worse,  _ better _ , more brain-crushingly devotional. It’s going to fucking slay him if Otabek ever figures out that there are people in the world who would be about 62 times less difficult to live with who’d happily roll over for him and somewhere between now and then Yuri’s got to rail the capacity for rational thought right out of him so he doesn’t notice when the thought hits. 

But first he’s got to fucking come. 

Even spotting it there on the horizon, the pleasure blindsides him every time; the shocky whiteout haze like the first breath after too long underwater, like snatching a lightning bolt out of the air and sticking his fucking tongue to it. 

One day he’s going to train himself out of the sickly, plaintive little noise that always seems to dribble out when he’s pumping a condom full of jizz, but today’s going down in the log as a failure in that department. Otabek just leans in and nibbles the whine of it off of his lips, dainty as the near-imperceptible flex of his hips, like his body’s desperate to keep going but he’s holding it back just in case. 

And really, fuck that. Yuri can get down with a lot of shit, given time to think it through, but holding back is not about to be one of them. 

Just to prove the point, he smacks his hands down on the curve of Beka’s ass - takes a second to make some mental snow angels in the luxurious silky clench of muscle all around his cock - and then carefully rolls them over. 

As perfect as Otabek looks on top of him, it’s still nothing compared to the flushed, melting sweetness of him bending under Yuri’s body. The way he sinks under the hazy gloss of want when Yuri fucks in slow and hard, jolting them a ways up the bed. 

The sludgy shift of the condom around him is almost too much, a slow lick over raw nerves. Maybe it’s all the years of training, or maybe it’s just what got him through all the years of training, but any which way, the whole edge of pain thing has never bothered him overmuch. Actually kind of the opposite. He’s got another minute or two if he keeps on fucking before he hits that wall and either gets hard again, which ow, or really starts to go soft, so he goes ahead and puts his back into it, fucking hard and deep enough to make Beka’s nailbeds go white where he’s clutching at the sheets. 

The soft “o” of his mouth is like a beacon, bottom lip trembling with every thrust, so Yuri runs his tongue along it. Moans like every club girl Beka’s probably ever banged when those neat, white teeth catch at him, dig in almost-not-quite hard enough to draw blood. 

Beka’s dick’s a gorgeous, thick curve between them, painting a sheen over his abs every time he undulates, thighs snug around Yuri’s waist as he works himself back, down, fucking begging for it. Better than any fantasy Yuri’s ever had, including the ones specifically about this. 

“You gonna come for me?” he pants into the sloppy not-kiss he’s busy laying over Otabek’s slack mouth. Swallows up the shallow little sob Otabek lets out and tries to make himself think past the way the gripping heat all around him is sending razor-winged butterflies flitting along his veins. 

Completely and totally loses that battle when Beka croaks back, “Yura.  _ Zhanym _ . Please,” one hand tangling up in the messy curtain of his hair, pulling so hard that Yuri almost completely forgets about his cock for .3 seconds and then remembers  _ really hard _ . Yeah, okay, he could probably go for another minute or two. Possibly a lot longer, if Beka keeps that up. 

Possibly causing a major fucking problem because Yuri’s not an expert or anything but he’s reasonably sure you’re not supposed to wear the same condom through two rounds. Fuck, he’d give a full year’s worth of medal payouts not to have Yuuri’s voice in his head right now chirping on about safe sex. Having shitty parents was supposed to prevent this kind of issue.

Working a hand down between them to grab Otabek’s cock gets this huffy, jagged sound full on javelin-tossed out of Beka’s mouth. Rolling his thumb over the head of it just the way Beka likes it cuts the sound off completely, a white noise plunge that Yuri gets to delight in for at space of a spare thought before the blunt edge of his thumbnail dragged along the slit for that mean kiss of pleasure courses up Otabek’s spine, back down, and wipes his mind clean along with it, because fuck. 

_ Tight.  _

The twitching pressure of Otabek around him is riding hard on that hissing, molten-sweet line between so good he wants to cry and just making him want to fucking cry; the synapses firing off haphazard from his brain and going for a joyride along the way, coasting the panorama of his cock in Otabek’s ass before cruising down to set his muscles shivering under his skin and his fingers spasming around Beka’s leaking dick. 

They’ve been doing this long enough for Yuri to have memorized the seize-release, the urgent sort of convulsion that shoves Otabek’s knee right the fuck into his his kidney, and he honestly doesn’t even care because in the next second he’s got Beka’s come turning his fingers slippery and the hard, perfect internal jerk that squeezes twisted-sharp around his own overworked cock. He seriously might lose a couple of seconds somewhere in there because that’s the only plausible excuse for the world feeling this perfect. 

There is, in a very weird way that Yuri would have never guessed when he was 15 and lust-dumb over the pretty skater with a poet’s mouth, a particular smell to sex sweat. He hasn’t figured out what it is exactly, but there’s definitely a difference. Slumped over Otabek, nose buried in the dirty, salty, slick curve of Beka’s neck, Yuri would have to be paid to give a fuck what that difference is. 

Carefully pulling out, he reaches down to deal with the condom. The panties are still stuck around his thighs and in the choice between pulling off the gymnastics to work them down and off or just shimmying them back up, Yuri slides them back up onto his hips, dick sticky and more like soft-ish than full on flopville. 

Otabek’s cock, on the other hand, proves too much of a temptation. Fat and silky and burning hot, flushed and gleaming under the patina of his own come. Too fucking gorgeous for Yuri not to scoot down and lick over the plumped, soft shape of it, gathering up the slippery, faintly sharp taste on his tongue before letting the come dribble back off again slowly, tongue out on display for Beka’s dazed appreciation. 

“You really think you’re not kinky,” Otabek mumbles, slurry and soft at the edges. 

Yuri makes the slow crawl up Otabek’s body, loses a solid minute nuzzling all up on Beka’s nipples and scratching his nails across the light, wiry hair scattered over his chest. The lace is dragging at him in a sort of gnawing, electric zing, waffling between alluring and overwhelming as he snugs himself in tight against Otabek’s side. 

“So you like the panties?” he asks, nestling in for a nibble of the earlobe he keeps telling Beka he should pierce. Once you’ve done the shell, might as well go all-in, right? 

Otabek shivers, wide palm flattening out against the small of Yuri’s back. His fingers tuck under the band of the panties, toying idly as he rubs his cheek against Yuri’s, brushes gossamer light kisses over it. 

“I do,” he admits, almost reluctant. “But only if you do too.”

The way Yuri’s arms fit around Beka chips away a little at the edges of his sanity, but that’s really nothing new. 

“Good,” he breathes into the warm curve of Otabek’s neck, one leg hooked and wound around Beka’s. He strokes an affectionate finger over the soft wave of Beka’s hipbone and doesn’t bother to bite back a smile. “Next time you get to wear them.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr, mainly posting WTTM gifs over and over right now. If you're not getting enough of that in your life, you can find me at [bewaretheides315](http://bewaretheides315.tumblr.com/)


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